


aut vincere aut mori

by NekoAisu



Series: VERs [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Diplomacy, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Major Character Undeath, One-Sided Attraction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Sacrifice, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/NekoAisu
Summary: It's probably not that hard. Really, it probably wouldn't be an issue if someone had told him earlier on, "Hey, Celio, you know you're going to have to help save the world, someday, right?" But here they are, instead, with all of Eos coming apart at the seams and problems demanding sacrifices in order to be solved.He really wishes there were a manual for learning how to Oracle, but he's instead stuck with the Chosen King, his retinue, and exactly zero idea how he got Lady Lunafreya's Blessing.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Another AU! Woo! Please don't be too angry with me <3
> 
> This is completely un-betaed, so please let me know if you catch any mistakes!

With all the people talking about near-death experiences and their life flashing before their eyes, Celio Bellamy thought his wasting away was rather anticlimactic.

 

His knee had gone bad three days prior, pitching him to bed rest. The days after had been spent in a makeshift wheelchair, not having the nerve to use the only brace they had in the Citadel, avoiding the remnants of scattered clothing and long since broken windows. He had to pause halfway through the doorway to the throne room because his hands had begun tingling and gone numb shortly thereafter. He made up an excuse about needing a moment to clear his head, smiling vacantly at Prompto like the man couldn’t see right through it.

 

 _He knows,_ a part of his mind always whispers, _and he will always forgive._

 

Celio didn’t want to face the fact that the only reason why three months later, being wheeled around like everyone’s second pick for a king, was because Noctis had faltered. Because their last hope hadn’t been enough. He didn’t want to face Prompto and apologize, cry and beg and plead for his forgiveness because Noctis had still taken on the burden of the throne he had been entrusted with since before birth.

 

He didn’t want to hear the words pouring from his own mouth when he whispered softly into the deadly quiet of the space before the throne, unable to meet the eyes of his own King, “I am sorry, your majesty. I will not be able to stand by your side for much longer.”

 

Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Light and Savior to the Star, just looked away.

 

“You can’t keep acting like it’s not going to happen, Noctis,” Celio states. He picks at the frayed hem of his makeshift mantle and sighs. It’s far too heavy, both the cloth and the sound of his own voice, and he feels crushed by the very air surrounding him.

 

“I know,” Noctis says, “and I’m sorry.”

 

They sit in silence, one in a wheelchair and one on a throne, before Celio coughs. He used to never have much of an issue breathing, but that’s been far from the truth as of late. It hurts his chest to expel air so harshly and sends needles of pain spidering across his ribs not unlike being hit point blank with Firaga. He pulls the mantle a little tighter around his shoulders and hopes Noctis won’t be so worried if he can’t see why his face turns deathly pale in the aftermath of the fit. The bruising slowly crawling across his body is not at all something he wishes to burden this King with.

 

“I can do it again,” Noctis offers and Celio gasps so hard he nearly chokes, wincing.

 

“You _can’t_ , Noctis. It took too much out of you to keep me from leaving you thus far, but I can feel it like I can feel rain coming. I am sure it is my time.” He smiles and it’s a hollow, wretched thing. He can’t quite find any emotion to fill the shell of a body he’s been bound to enough that it would dare reach his eyes.

 

Noctis bites his lip and it’s such an _old_ habit. It makes him look years younger, softer somehow, and not so scared as he does frustrated. He speaks tentatively, words soft like he’s trying to pick up the pieces left behind without cutting either of them on the edges, “I know… but I wish you’d let me try again. I lost Luna, all those years before, and I don’t want to lose you, too.”

 

“I’ve done what I was supposed to do,” Celio points out. “I have nothing left to d-”

 

“But you _do!_ Gladio’s been waiting for you to just _talk_ to him and yet you’ve been cowering here by my side like everything else will burn you if you get too close,” Noctis explodes, hands thrown upward while he rants, “so come _on,_ man! You’ve fought the Scourge itself, faced down the Astrals- hell, even my own _dad_ -and you’re scared to just talk to Gladio about exactly what happened in here like he’s somehow going to reject you! Can’t you see that he’s in love with you?!”

 

With all the biting severity of Shiva’s frost, Noctis is hit by all-encompassing regret. It wasn’t his secret to spill and Gladiolus had entrusted him with it explicitly because he trusted Noctis to never betray him in such a way. If that wasn’t bad enough, Celio sits curled back into his chair, nearly white with terror, and it’s with a wave of nausea Noctis recognizes the vacant stare that’s taken up residence on his face as the same one he wore after they rescued him from Ardyn ten years ago.

 

When he speaks, it’s not even a whisper, barely an exhalation enough to warrant even the softest of sounds like he’s afraid to exist in any capacity other than as an ornament, “He can’t.”

 

“You, of all people, should know we can’t choose who to love,” Noctis replies.

 

Celio huffs a laugh, more an imitation of one than anything real, and agrees, “I do, but I can still hope.”

 

Noctis can feel the familiar burning of his eyes, the tingling that comes with the beginning of an uncontrollable flood of tears, but does not dare look away from where Celio stares out the window, bathed in gold sunlight like he’s well and truly divine. He just sobs silently, tears streaking down his cheeks and nose running in a perfect imitation of how he did in the wake of his father’s death.

 

“Do not cry for me, Noctis. You must walk tall just as you did before, ever moving forward and accepting the consequences of your actions. It is not your responsibility to make up for that which I have done.”

 

He just sobs harder, breath hitching and face turned to something he knows is terrible to look upon. Celio reaches out, sliding a hand up and along Noctis’s neck to his jaw, brushing a few tears aside and laying a soft kiss to his forehead. “May you always be blessed,” he prays, “and may you always be happy.”

 

They cling to each other, Noctis with his hands balled in Celio’s mantle and Celio with a weakening hold on Noctis’s chest. Noctis barely notices when Celio stops holding onto him, overwhelmed by both the tears that won’t cease and by the magnitude of his emotions, only coming to realize it when he reciprocates with a prayer of his own only to be met with silence.

 

“Celio?” He leans back, hoping that Celio had just fallen asleep, but he doesn’t stir. Noct stares at his unmoving chest with his own heart jackhammering away hard enough it causes his ribs to ache with the force of it. He screams, “Ignis! Iggy, _please,_ it’s Celio!”

 

He tests Celio’s pulse, his eyes, tries to find some proof that what he was fearing was not true. When it begins to look more and more like a true death, he becomes desperate. Ignis arrives just in time to keep him from pouring every ounce of his remaining magic into the body of the last Oracle.

 

The day Celio Bellamy dies is the same night Gladiolus Amicita finds a thick, leather bound notebook on his bed. It’s an old thing, made flexible with time and loving use, and the first page reads in familiar sloping script:

_For my dearest Gladiolus,_

_whom I cannot express my love for with words._

_I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me._

 

He only dares hope the pages hold the answers he never managed to get. With trembling fingers and an almost reverent gaze, he begins to read.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual beginning lies here! Woah~!

“Welcome to Insomnia, Lord Bellamy.”

 

“Thank you for your endless hospitality, your Majesty," Celio says, sweating enough to be worrisome as he takes the King's hand and shakes it, the very picture of a pushover diplomat. He's dressed head to toe in white and silver, colors that are so very strange to see in Insomnia's ocean of Royal Black at the Citadel, with no obvious weaponry hanging from his frame.

 

He's dwarfed by his own clothing the same as the king, having too soft of a face and body in comparison to the anxiety lined countenance of the King of Lucis. He silently hopes he doesn't smell like sweat and fear because he can swear he's around two seconds away from passing out when the king leads him inside with a solid hand at his back.

 

There are reporters clustered all along the boundary lines surrounding the Citadel's main steps. People are packed all along the walkways to the point that they spill past the gates, some bearing signs that are nearly more violent than their expressions. Their yelling and foisting of flags and beliefs like axes and knives is more dangerous than that of the Crownsguard dressed in full riot gear bringing up the rear.

 

They step confidently into place, a wall of black and silver, as they ascend in formation. Celio feels small, if not slightly less terrified, at their apparent stoicism. He doesn't dare say anything more until after they're all inside the Citadel's lobby with the doors closed and the fifth security sweep of the day granting him some form of privacy at the King's side.

 

His Shield is present as always. There are no two ways about it. The only way the King of Insomnia would ever be disposed of is it his Shield has been slain.

 

_May the Astrals bless them both with a long life._

 

"My apologies for the telegraphed diplomacy, your Majesty," he begins, "but it was a necessary evil."

 

The king laughs and it's something made of near-delight. "While I do understand the purpose for your visit, my boy, you must forgive me. You're gotten so _big_ since I last saw you! Stand up, stand _up,_ and let me see you!"

 

Celio humors him and smiles as he turns slowly to show off the complete lack of anything remarkable. "Is this enough showmanship to please my King?"

 

"Not quite," he replies," as I would much rather you be familiar as you were before. I get the whole 'Mr. King' spiel from Clarus enough as it is-"

 

"Because you _are_ king, Regis," his Shield interjects.

 

"-and I'm feeling much too old for this. Do me a favor, please, and don't pull rank on me," he finishes.

 

Celio sits back down in his overly plush drawing room chair and feels himself lose some of the tension that had turned him to s springboard slip away. He's visibly relieved when he replies, "Okay, then, King Reggie."

 

"Reggie? Really?" Regis jokes, smile long since gone from diplomatic to familiar.

 

"You asked and I made sure to anger Clarus no more than what is strictly necessary," Celio quips. "Speaking of you and your state of affairs, how is Anemone, sir?"

 

Silence blankets the room. He feels tension creep back into the room and settle on its haunches like it's not even scared of attack, but, rather, the lack thereof.

 

"My apologies, sir. It was not my place to ask."

 

Clarus sighs. "She passed away shortly after we were blessed with Iris. I had forgotten how enamored you were with her after sneaking in with Prince Noctis to interrupt our conference call."

 

"In my defense, sir, your wife is still the most amazing woman I know because she could deal with _Gladiolus_."

 

"You don't even _know_ my son, Celio,” he says, brows furrowed like he’s trying to puzzle out where Celio’s dislike for his son sprung from.

 

“The Lady Lunafreya said he was not Noctis’s ally for what was verging on a long while before they found something forgivable in each other,” Celio responds. He pulls a letter from the inside of his coat pocket with a steady hand and presents it to Regis carefully. The stationary is pristine, a solid shade of violet without any creases to be seen, sealed with pressed wax depicting the crest of House Not Fleuret. It’s not addressed for want of anonymity in case of emergency, but the sender is unmistakable.

 

Regis takes the letter reverently. Clarus does not bother to ask what is contained inside, returning to his state of hyper-vigilance at the King’s right. He knows that Regis will tell him, but it’s more a matter of ensuring nobody in the room is in danger during the exchange.

 

Celio waits until Regis’s face turns stony before speaking and, even then, it’s orchestrated to be soothing, “The Lady Lunafreya will not be able to make it to Altissia without aid. She knows this and has sent me to assist you in protecting both her and Prince Noctis.”

 

“What is it that she needs? We will see to it immediately,” Regis asks and it’s already edging on a command. He does not stand, but he seems imperious in his monotone chair, a specter pained in Royal Black and the growing crackle of magic.

 

“You will have to forgive me, your Majesty, but she needs a sacrifice.”

 

Clarus asks in place of his King, “What would that entail?”

 

“Someone with extraordinary abilities that would be safe far behind enemy lines, no matter the situation,” Celio explains with sorrow clouding his gaze. “They will not make it out alive, once inside that den of monsters.”

 

Regis stands with the barest hint of a wobble, knee brace helping keep him upright while shouldering the strain of the Wall. He orders them both, tone carved from steel, “Find the best we have that you deem trustworthy and bring them to me. We must obey the Oracle.”

 

It went unsaid that this was not something they would speak about anywhere other than at each other’s sides in only the safest of places. If Lunafreya fell, Eos would fall with her.

 

“Yes, your Majesty. Thank you for your understanding,” Celio says.

 

They go their separate ways, Regis and Clarus to run a country whose fate is already decided by the Astrals and Celio to try and stop the inevitable. It takes less than an hour for everything to go to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/leave kudos if you enjoyed it <3


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s) for:  
> Violence  
> Usage of firearms and bladed weaponry  
> Serious character injury (nongraphic)  
> Offscreen character death (and undeath)

There are few things that can inspire wrath from Insomnia’s resident Bellamy. Unfortunately, the apparent ineptitude of the Citadel staff makes it on that list. 

 

He can already feel a headache forming when the poor Crownsguard assigned with his watch knocks at the door to inform him of the first of many unfortunate developments. He answers the door while still in dress clothes, hair unpinned and shoes off the only indication that he was previously resting. He raises one carefully manicured brow when the guard does not move from attention while reporting the apparent disappearance of his last piece of luggage. 

 

“What do you mean by  _ “misplacement,”  _ ma’am? If it’s been held up by the Citadel security team to be checked further, that’s all I need know,” he says airily. “It’s quite the common pattern among visitations.” 

 

The woman frowns, seemingly discomfited by his immediate suspicion of her telling such a bold faced lie. “If that were the case, Lord Bellamy, you have the Crown’s word that you would have already been informed of it.”

 

Celio sighs, opening the door further and stepping backward. “Well, if that’s all and you’ve nothing to do for the time being, company would be appreciated. Do you think the Kings of Yore have ever considered how  _ depressing  _ their usual color scheme is for non-Insomnians?”

 

“My apologies, sir, but I have to return to my post,” she replies.

 

There’s an obvious difference in rank as it is, a visit diplomat requesting something of a low-level member of his borrowed security detail. The difference between Lucis and Niflheim is made obvious in how she can refuse to accompany him simply as returning to her work, versus nearly needing to fall to her knees in supposed thanks the way Niflheim officials like those ranking lower than them to act.  

 

Celio shrugs and waves her off with a smile. “I hope the day treats you well.”

 

Once his door is closed, Celio lets all pretenses drop, continuing his usual practice of checking for bugs of any sort, picking through his underwear same as the provided bath towels. There was no point in not being discriminatory when neither side’s majority would be particularly kind towards him when given word of the Lady Lunafreya’s plan.

 

His suitcases are dumped out, sorted through, and set aside. He checks all the mirrors, knocks on walls and fixtures alike, and ends up with a small collection of miniature microphones and a few other live-feed devices he’s fairly sure are of Niflheim-make even though he’d unearthed them along the amenities of his borrowed room. 

 

He’s halfway through hanging up the small collection of suits he’d brought along when there’s another knock. A glance at the bedside clock tells him it’s been around two hours since his previous visit─around five minutes off from when he’s supposed to meet with the captain of the Kingsglaive to discuss possible routes for civilian evacuation and transport to Tenebrae in the case of Lucis’s demise─and the sun shining too brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows matches the steady LED reading. 

 

“One moment, if you will,” he calls, setting down a particularly gaudy ceremonial number he’d rather burn than wear to the welcome banquet. He’s already opened the door halfway when he realizes that the guard never specified that she’d check back with him on the issue instead of sending it up during dinner, given his things are recovered during the time it takes for the highbrow Houses to engage in thinly veiled coquetry for the sake of marrying into further riches. 

 

It’s already too late to slam the heavy wood shut when there’s a flash of steel arcing straight for his neck. He all but jumps backward, heart hammering against his ribs enough to very nearly cause pain, hands closing around nothing when he reaches for the hilt of his regular travel armaments. 

 

He’d left them with the guard who’d watched the door during his audience with Regis. He doesn’t recall ever getting any one of the blades back. 

 

When his assailant steps fully into the room, kicking the door shut behind them with a heavily booted foot, Celio is ready to jump out the window in hopes a forty story fall would be better to him than one of the king’s own ‘Glaives.  

 

“What are you doing here,” he demands, breaking out in a cold sweat. He tracks further into the room, aiming to get close enough to his things to at least have a slight chance of making a break for it. 

 

They laugh like the world is crumbling around them, raucous and uncaring of someone overhearing.The silver of their mask is blindingly bright, painted gold where the evening sun strikes it. Celio can’t make out a face between the filigree and accompanying dust mask. It’s with a voice too desperate to be anything short of despairing that they ask, “Tell me, why did the Oracle summon Shiva and doom us all?!”

 

Celio falters, brows furrowing and breath catching in his lungs, forcing himself to stall for time in hopes  _ someone  _ may come to his aid. “What?” 

 

The ‘Glaive steps forward, forcing Celio to backtrack ever closer to the far wall to avoid their fury, and cries, “How can you even stand to help that family when all they’ve done is destroy us?!”

 

It’s a near thing to a scream when they make for his face, karambit a shining crescent of Damascus where it slices across his forehead and clips his ear. He manages to avoid the worst possible damage with a last-second duck, but it’s not nearly enough when they flip the blade around and slam the hilt into his left temple. 

 

Celio’s head snaps to the side, eyes wide and terrified as his vision swims with black spots. He’s barely aware of the muted sound his knees make against the carpet before he’s staring blearily at the fibers up close. There’s a sharp explosion of pain from his side and he reaches to protect himself, to see what’s wrong and assess the damage, but a booted foot slams heel-first down on the back of his hand. 

 

Each fresh wave of agony filters in slowly as if being sifted through a fine sieve. Sounds warp from sharp to deceptively soft in less than a second to match the ringing in his ears. He’s barely sure he hears the cocking of a gun before it fires. 

 

The first bullet misses its mark, carving out a long furrow along his neck. The second is closer, hitting him in the shoulder a little too high up to reach the heart. The third is right on the mark, deafening where it buries itself inside his chest cavity. 

 

The numbness that follows is nearly a relief. 

  
  
  
  


Cor Leonis prides himself on being reasonable. It’s decidedly not the best thing he should pride himself in when he’s managed to acquire and maintain the nickname of “Immortal,” but he tries his best regardless. 

 

He tells himself it’s perfectly reasonable to carry one very nearly dead young man to the Citadel infirmary with the knocked out body of one of Regis’s own ‘Glaives thrown over his shoulders in an augmented fireman carry. It’s more than reasonable, he rationalizes, to have responded to a series of gunshots he’d barely managed to hear in time. He’s done his job. 

 

With blood still soaking sluggishly through his shirt where he sits in one of the many uncomfortable waiting room chairs, he’s still not quite sure where he went wrong. 

 

He stares blankly at the clock, barely paying enough attention to the ticking of the second hand for it to be considered watching, until it’s five forty six exactly and the surgeon comes back out of the operating room. Cor isn’t sure if the grim look is because of his state of dress, or the news he may be given. “Report.”

 

“We were able to remove both of the bullets and sent them to forensics. We’re sorry to say, but he didn’t make it.” Cor does not sigh, but it’s close enough that the surgeon tacks on a stoic, “Permission to use Phoenix Down, Marshall?”

 

“Permission granted.”

 

By five fifty three, Celio is alive and understandably panicked. 

 

By five fifty nine, Cor has been given yet another highly dangerous and questionably reasonable demand by Regis (the bastard) he can’t quite say he’s opposed to. It’s with the expression of a man far too tired for bureaucratic bullshit that he decides he needs a drink. Or five. Probably five. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos, and subscriptions are appreciated greatly!! <3
> 
> Yell at/with me on:  
> Tumblr: Kiriami-sama  
> Twitter: FlamingAceKiri


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